


Love Don't Roam

by Fiercest



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cleaning as therapy, Fake Angst, Fluff, M/M, Viktor does not jump to conclusions, he hops on a plane and jets from conclusion to conclusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiercest/pseuds/Fiercest
Summary: With his fiancé out of town, Yuuri cleans to cope and upon his return, Viktor jumps to conclusions.





	Love Don't Roam

It’s weird for Yuuri, to be left alone in the St Petersburg apartment. Generally, when he and Viktor are separated, he has things to distract him; like family obligations, sponsorship shoots or a Grand Prix qualifying event sans coach. To be left with nothing to occupy him except his loneliness is torture.

He prunes all his houseplants, which leads him to clipping Makkachin’s nails. Which leads him to vacuuming up the clippings and the rest of the apartment. Which leads him to moving all the furniture so he can clean under it. Which leads to polishing said furniture. Which leads to steaming the rugs… except he needs to buy a special cleaner, so he picks up oven cleaner because it’s right next to it in the aisle. And once the oven’s clean, he feels that the microwave should probably match.

The apartment is completely changed. It’s like no one lives here. Gone is all the clutter which marked Yuuri’s invasion into Viktor’s life. He’s accrued so much junk that he never purged before his speedy move. Mari did not need to send his  _ Smoking Thot  _ tshirt with the rest of his clothes. Maybe it’s time for a purge? Definitely time to burn the daisy dukes at the stake.

Yuuri returns from the post office with a stack of cardboard boxes and packing tape. Makkachin is thrilled with her new playhouse, which makes it hard to stay on task.   


He packs away the books he doesn’t plan on rereading. He resists the urge to bring them to a consignment store to sell them for 70 cents each. He’s not in college anymore, he tells himself. He just medalled at an international event, he doesn’t need the extra $11.20. Yuuri resolves to donate it all.

All the novelty tshirts,  _ thotty or otherwise _ , as well as any practice shirts with holes in the neck or pits, go in another box, also destined for the donation bin. He stacks it all by the door. He hates to leave it but his thrifty tendencies refuse to allow the expense of a moving truck and he doesn’t read enough cyrillic to know which local charities do pickups. He’ll wait for Viktor to get back and drive it all over. Maybe he can convince him to donate a few boxes too.

All that done and there’s still 76 more hours until he’ll have his fiance home with him again. Maybe Yuri will be willing to come over for junk food and Super Smash.

.

.

Neither Yuri is answering his phone and Viktor’s already frayed nerves are starting to untwist altogether. He feels ready to fly apart after 7 hours penned into a 2x3 business class seat. He wants to go home, shower, fall face first into his love’s lap and never resurface.

He’s a day early, there’s no reason to be disappointed not to be met at the airport. It’s unreasonable to think that Yuuri’s soul would feel the call of its mate, the moment he touched down within 100KM. Still. If pouting were an Olympic sport Viktor would have double the medals.

He grabs a cab and tries to ward off the achy chill recycled plane air causes. Soon, he’ll be home where he belongs. Mentally, he rearranges his list of needs to a hot bath, Yuuri as his wet and naked backrest, and a glass of chilled wine.

He turns the key in the lock and pushes the door in. Halfway open, it bumps up against something with a dull thud. He blinks quizzically and slides through the gap. It’s a stack of cardboard boxes?

“Yuuri?” He calls, to no response. “Are we moving?” He glances at the hooks by the door. Yuuri’s keys are gone, so he isn’t home. He’s still on his feet, not on his back, so neither is Makkachin.

He moves through the apartment like a spectre; forlorn and hungry for warmth and feeling. Yuuri’s things are missing. There’s no mess. It’s like no one lives here at all. He glances back at the boxes; a terrible fear buffering at the speed of dialup. A cold, loud crawl.

Viktor scrambles for his phone and dials Yuuri’s number again. It rings and rings and rings.

What he needs at this moment is not to panic. He just needs to hear his voice and it’ll calm the panicky paranoia that’s taken hold of his guts.  _ Hi Viktor, my love, my darling. Welcome home, let's make love on the carpet after at least 35 minutes of foreplay, then we’ll try that thing I did on your birthday again, you beautiful, talented artist, you.  _ That’s all he wants to hear.

But the shelves in the living room are much less crowded. Yuuri’s towel isn't hanging up to dry in the bathroom. He picks a drawer in the bedroom dresser and opens it, only to find it empty. All these things argue fervently against the tender confidence he has in their relationship.

What did he do wrong? Was he pushing too hard? Should he have given him more space or less? Stupid Viktor, he probably said something horribly upsetting when they skyped and doesn’t even remember it. How could he have completely destroyed his life last night and not even remember? Yurio is right. He is a senile old bastard.

His fiance has left him and  _ he took the dog. _

A key scrapes in the lock and Viktor swivels around like said stolen baby; alert for his favourite person to return home.

Makkachin bounds in first, Yuuri right behind, and it’s like everything in Viktor that was broken and strewn about comes flying back together all at once. All he can think is the word love--the concepts of peace and family.

He throws himself at Yuuri, who thankfully is ready for such a welcome. Viktor clings, face pressed into his winter coat, tears of relief and terror pooling in his eyes. Yuuri hugs him back for a few moments but when he tries to pry Viktor off, he finds an uncooperative fiance.

“Vitya,” he laughs, pulling at the stubborn grip. “Let go so I can kiss you.”

Viktor rears back immediately, “You still want to kiss me?” he asks, hope shining in his eyes.

Yuuri snorts, the idea that there would ever be a time he  _ didn’t _ want to kiss Viktor Nikiforov, ludicrous. “Of course, what- why wouldn’t I?”

Let it not be said that Viktor squanders opportunities. He melds his lips against Yuuri’s, passionate and fierce. Again and again.

“Vitya, Viktor, baby…” Yuuri cruelly pulls away. “Are you crying?”

“No,” he cries and goes in for another kiss.

But Yuuri sees right through him. “Yes you are. What’s wrong?”

What  _ is _ wrong? He was just being ridiculous. “I thought you were never coming back, ever and I panicked.”

Yuuri--rudely!--snorts. “Okay Makkachin… wait what?”

“I thought you were leaving me,” amusement turns to heartbreaking concern.

“Why would I ever do that?”

“I don't know. Did I say something terrible? Because I promise I didn’t mean it.”

“Vitya no… I’m not. I could never. I love you so much. I swear, I will never leave you. If you want to get rid of me I’m going to need you to be very explicitly clear about it because otherwise I’m staying put.” He slides his hands up Viktors back and tips his forehead into his.

“Yes. Stay put. Stay close to me and never leave.”

“And I meant what made you think I left?”

“There are boxes by the door,” Viktor points them out, like Yuuri might have missed them when he walked in. He notices now that they’re marked ‘FOR DONATION’.

“I was just getting rid of some junk.”

“There’s no clutter-” “Junk!” “-all your stuff is gone!”

“I put them away. I clean sometimes,” Yuuri defends.

“Your drawers are empty.”

“I’m donating my old clothes!”

“Noooo, which ones? Not  _ Too Thot to Trot _ !! Not the croptops???”

“Of course the crop tops.”

“No. I refuse. I forbid it.”

Unimpressed, Yuuri crosses his arms. “You don’t have that kind of power.”

When lined up all together, these changes are incriminating. But Yuuri has an answer for it all. He lays it out so simply. How could he ever have doubted?

“I can… maybe see how it looks.” Yuuri comes home, nuzzling into Viktor’s chest and inhaling deeply. “But please...assume the best of me,” he asks into the coat Viktor never took off.  _ Don’t prepare for the worst _ .

It’s a lot of faith to put in a person, but if there’s anyone Viktor believes in, it’s Katsuki Yuuri. With that, he lets the last of his reservations leave. He bids them goodbye, never again shall they meet.

“Did you donate that tie?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely dumb and I'm sorry.


End file.
